


Just the Book

by Carenejeans



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's looking for a book. It's Aziraphale's bookshop, but Crowley provides customer service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just the Book

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Moony for the 2010 [221B_slash_fest](http://community.livejournal.com/221b_slash_fest/)  
> Beta and Britpicking thanks to Unovis and Tehomet

John stamped his feet against the cold and huddled down inside his jacket. "Sherlock, it's _cold_ out here." His voice was muffled by the scarf that covered half his face. "Let's go inside."

"Pointless," Sherlock said, equally muffled, his nose red from the cold.

"Been here before?" John peered through the storefront windows. Behind the glass, the books on display listed against each other dejectedly. They'd been in the window a long time. Too long.

"Never," Sherlock said. "But look at the windows. Second-hand bookshop run by a book collector turned shopkeeper. He doesn’t care if he sells books or not, it's merely a convenient way to store them. He'll be sitting behind the counter with his feet propped up, talking to a fellow bookman with the same social graces as his own, which are nil. Both are probably old duffers in their fifties. It'll be nearly as cold inside as it is out here, with all of the heat in the shop coming from a small heater aimed directly at the shopkeeper's feet. The place will smell of cabbage and ammonia. The shelves will be full to overflowing, possibly with precarious stacks on the floor that make the place impossible to navigate and a fire hazard as well. He knows where every book in the place is shelved, or piled, but he won't offer to help unless you ask, and if you do ask, you'll get a surly and unhelpful reply. So it's pointless to go in."

"You deduced all that from the outside?" John tried to see through the glass door, but it was covered with flyers, their print faded into illegibility.

"Not deduction," Sherlock said with a faint smile. "Experience."

"I need that book."

"I doubt you'll find it in there."

John's exasperated sigh puffed a wintery cloud. "I'm going in."

Sherlock looked from John to the shop and back at John. "Fine. If you manage to come out with a book, I'll make tea every morning for a week."

John scoffed. "You won't remember to make tea for a week."

"You'll remind me, I'm sure." Sherlock pushed through the door.

Sherlock was right. It was the sort of bookshop that had rooms leading to more rooms leading, ultimately to a 'back room,' where books were sold only to the most devoted connoisseurs -- whether of rare books or pornography -- at eyebrow-raising prices. There were far too many books packed into the available space, with the predicted piles on the floor, tables, the tops of bookcases, an occasional chair. John edged around a table piled with books in a pattern that made his eyes water, and almost knocked a stack to the floor, earning him a knowing smirk from Sherlock. Experimentally, he tried to extract a slim volume from a shelf so tightly packed the books might as well have been mortared together, and gave up.

The man behind the counter could be called a duffer, John supposed. He had a face like an aging choirboy and wore a tartan smoking jacket that clashed with, well, everything. But no duffer ever had such elegantly manicured hands. John frowned. Nor second-hand bookshop owner for that matter. At any rate, his friend in the snakeskin boots was _not_ a duffer, by any stretch. His dark hair and good cheekbones could give Sherlock's a run for their money, and his sunglasses seemed to suck up all the extra light in the badly-lit shop. Both men looked up; the dark man looked at them with the kind of interest a snake showed a rabbit. The softer man behind the counter regarded them with the bright button eyes of a terrier who wanted to hump your leg.

They both lost interest in paying customers at the same time and bent their heads together. People probably _always_ assume these two are dating, John thought. Even if they weren't. But of course they were.

"Excuse me," John said, ignoring Sherlock's amused half-grin. "I'm looking for a book…"

The shopkeeper fixed his puppy eyes on John, who unaccountably felt his mouth go dry. "Yes?" the man said mildly.

"It's called--" John faltered. "The title is. Erm." What was the name of the thing? He tried again. "By, ah."

Both men stared at him with identical flat expressions. The dark one suddenly smiled -- not really a nice smile -- and spoke in a voice that was at the same time chilling and caressing. "This book. It must be about something?"

That, John knew, at least. Mrs Hudson had told him at length and in great detail. "It's about, erm." Oh _hell_. "It's funny, but I can't quite remember." I can't even _see_ his eyes, John told himself. So I can't actually feel them drilling me to the floor. John looked wildly around for Sherlock, but he'd disappeared.

The shopkeeper leaned his elbows on the counter. "Recommended by a friend, was it?" he said kindly.

"Right, that's it," John said gratefully. "My landlady. Mrs Hudson. Loved it to bits. Said I _must_ read it." He stopped hopefully.

"Ah," the shopkeeper said. He and the dark one exchanged a look. "His _landlady_ ," the shopkeeper said, with a strange emphasis on the word. The dark one nodded. He unwound himself from his perch and advanced toward John, who backed away hastily. He brushed past John (John felt suddenly cold) and signalled him to follow. Reluctantly, John did, down a long row, through a door, around a corner, and down a staircase to a dark room. The man flipped a switch and the place lit up, much to John's relief.

"My name's Crowley," the man said in an offhand tone as he scanned the shelves. He was still wearing his sunglasses.

 _How did he even see his way down the stairs?_ "I'm John."

"Yes, I know," Crowley said, and plucked a book from the shelf and passed it to John. It was bound in dark, rich leather, with a stamped design that seemed to writhe as John stared at it. It was either two people in a rather racy embrace, or a tangle of carnivorous flowers. He opened the book to the title page, under the steady glass gaze of Crowley, who lounged against the bookcase in a way that was… suggestive. John wondered if he'd missed an important cue. He doggedly examined the book.

"A Disquisition Upon the Arts of Love," he read, feeling himself blush. "Including Instruction in those Acts Most Pleasurable to Perform, with Guidance on Divers Amusements with Instruments of Pain, Constraints, and Sensory Deprivation; for Couples, Flatmates…" John stuttered to a stop on the word. _Flatmates?_ "Blah blah blah, with Many Helpful Hints, Illustrations, Maps, and Schematics. By a Landlady of Quality."

"It's the book you want," Crowley said.

"It is?"

"You'll want to refer to Chapter Three," Crowley smiled, and was suddenly very close. His sunglasses were gone. _Strange eyes,_ John thought, but his brain shorted out as Crowley touched his cheek and leaned in, his lips barely touching John's, but his tongue… his tongue… _what was his tongue doing?_ Time slowed down, space constricted, Crowley was gone, and John was in Sherlock's arms, kissing him with abandon and _oh, God, I've been wanting this..._ A large book toppled from the shelf behind them and hit the floor with a bang.

John jumped, and Crowley's face fell into very Sherlockian sulk.

"Wait, wait," John gasped. "You-- he--I was --"

"He's an angel," Crowley said, pointing vaguely upwards, "but he's jealous." He snaked past John towards the stairs. "Don't forget the book," he said, turning to look at John over his shoulder. For an instant John had a vision of bright wings. He blinked and it was gone.

"But-- but--" John followed him up the stairs, clutching the book to his chest.

Sherlock was waiting by the counter, looking strangely dazed. John fumbled to pay for his book, but the shopkeeper merely slipped it in a bag and waved him out the door. John didn't look at Crowley, but he fancied something flicked out at his cheek when he passed by. He shivered.

They trudged homeward side by side, lost in thought, the cold forgotten.

John brandished his package weakly at Sherlock. "Tea every morning for a week." Normal, that's what we're heading towards. The flat, tea, heads in the fridge _normal_.

"Interesting choice," Sherlock said, looking at him sideways.

John felt his ears go hot. "What would a landlady know about…?" he trailed off.

"Quite a bit, I'd say. Think about it."

"You've got a book too," John said, changing the subject.

" _Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos_ ," Sherlock said. "Quite a find."

"Sounds useful." John blinked at a vision of the kitchen covered in ashes. How useful would his own book be? _"You'll want to refer to Chapter Three,"_ Crowley had said. He glanced up at his flatmate, only to find Sherlock looking intently at him.

John smiled. Chapter Three. He was looking forward to it.


End file.
